


Non Omnis Moriar

by DemonLollipop



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Esme is Tired, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Non-Mage MCIT, Sentient Rifts, kind of, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonLollipop/pseuds/DemonLollipop
Summary: Esme knows her home. She knows the trees, the rain and the clinging smell of the autumn spawning season.However, when she wakes up in a dungeon surrounded by angry men in armor after a long night of video games, horror movies and too much ice cream, she has a feeling she isn't in Washington anymore.Now Esme has to go through Thedas as a stranger, bearing an unwanted load (and title) on her back as she and her companions try to right the wrongs of those who tore the sky open and decided genocide was the best option.Here's hoping she doesn't get killed along the way.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 17
Kudos: 89





	1. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> I can blame no-one but myself.

Esme is struck first by the cold.

Despite the warmth of her winter pajamas and the thick woolen socks on her feet, the ground that she is kneeling on is cold and seems to leech the warmth from her legs as it presses against the grooved stone cobbles.

She is struck second by a fist. 

There is no lead up to the hit, no warning, nothing to tell Esme that she is going to be clocked in the temple by a metal-clad fist. But she is, and she can feel herself topple over onto the floor as her attacker stands above her, knife wielded in the opposite hand that harmed her. She stared up to the man, dazed and confused as he reached down and pulled her up, hand tangled in her messy curls.

“So, this is the little bitch that killed the Divine” He growled, and Esme could feel the strange man’s breath waft over her, sour from alcohol. His eyes were no better to see, a blood-stained red rim and sharply contrasting blue that seemed even colder than the floor. “What do you think the Seeker would say if we cut her up a bit before she died?”

“Think she wouldn't mind much. Probably planning on doing so herself.” Another voice piped up as Esme’s heart sank. 

“Cut off her ears!” Another voice cheered on.

“Take an eye!”

“Break her hands!” 

The voices of the men surrounding her were loud in the confined space, echoing off of the stone and mortar, ringing against each metal bar. But, despite the noise, the deafening shouts and growls, Esme is deaf to all of it.

Because all she can hear are the words  _ “Divine”  _ and  _ “Seeker” _ .

It is then, and only then, that she panics.

And, by then, it is too late.

The knife comes down as the door opens, and Esme feels the blade drag down her face, barely missing her eye as the soldier is startled by the sudden entrance. He lets her go, allowing her to fall to the ground as he whirls around, red coating his blade.

“Seeker Cassandra! We thought you was gonna be longer upstairs!” One of the soldiers yells, and for a moment, Esme can only think about how wrong his grammar is, despite the burning on the right side of her face and the liquid she can feel slowly making it's way down her cheek and across her nose. 

“And it seems we can back just in time instead,” Leliana says as Cassandra stares hard at the soldier who cut her. “I thought we said to keep her alive.”

“Still breathing, ain’t she?” Her soldier says, and Esme blinks slowly as she tries to scramble a thought together. “Just wanted to take our pound of flesh before the Breach took the rest”

“If everyone takes a pound, then there will be nothing but scraps left,” Cassandra says finally and jerks her chin to the door. “Out. The Commander needs more men near the mountain.”

The soldiers are quick to leave, save for her un-named attacker. Instead, he stares down at her for a moment before smiling cruelly. His grip reverses on the knife.

“Hold this for me, will ya?” He laughs and Esme makes a hoarse high-pitched noise as he plunges it neatly into the outside of her thigh, cutting through soft fat and muscle like butter. The bow he gives to the Hands is both mocking and respectful, and then he is up the stairs, leaving Esme alone, bleeding and helpless, before the two women.

Cassandra does her spiel as normal, but all Esme can do is lay there, staring blankly into the distance as the knife in her thigh stays, the blood slides down her face and the cold leeches anything she might feel into the stones.

For a moment, Esme wishes she could be stone. 

She doesn't whimper or make any noise when Leliana pulls the knife from her thigh, ties a piece of her pant leg around it and slips a pair of old boots on her socked feet. Doesn't make a peep when Cassandra hauls her up by a bruised shoulder and drags her up the stairs to where the sun is too bright, the sky is too strange and there is someone screaming that Esme cannot hear.

The first noise she makes of her own will, by her own body is the scream to the sky as the Breach expands and her hand cuts itself open from the inside, as if the Anchor wanted to claw itself out of her flesh, wriggle out into the ozone and ash sky, and scream with its own voice.

“... _ and it is killing you, _ ” Cassandra says, once the ringing in Esme’s ears has ceased, and she can think again. The Seeker seems to expect an answer, and Esme sighs as she takes stock of all the pain she is in, and the future that waits beyond the Breach.

“I'm scared” She whispers, and Cassandra’s expression flickers at her voice, the soft sound of it coming from her bloodied face. But Esme smiles slightly when she meets Cassandra’s eyes and finishes. “But I will help you if I can”. 

The Seeker nods as she helps Esme stand, and leads her through the throng of people she thought once knew, from Harrit’s scowl to Threnn’s shouting, Flissa’s cold gaze, and even Seggrit’s sharp aim. Some of the people throwing stones manage to hit her thigh, where blood seeps out from the edges and slides down her leg, a sad parody of a child’s first stride into fertility. Other’s hit her temple and shoulders, the shouting and noise making Esme restless.

Cassandra doesn't cut her hands at the bridge, says nothing as the second expansion makes the scream stick in Esme’s throat. The older woman just helps Esme back to her feet, sweeps her eyes up and down the girl’s figure and pulls her along.

Then the bridge explodes under her feet as they cross and Esme can feel something beyond pain and fear.

It is a soft, howling thing that feels wrong to hold in her chest as the Shade comes from the pool in the ice. It looks at her as the howling builds, as Esme stares down the demon down, feeling tears glide down her face in defiance. It moves to the unconscious Cassandra, who is splayed like a rag-doll on the ground, face still lined even in rest.

“I  _ refuse _ ” She growls and shoulder-tackles the Shade into the ice. Her bound fists can do little damage to the monster below her as she straddles it, but it doesn't stop her from trying. Her fists come down once, twice, six, twenty times before Cassandra drags her off, eyes wide.

The Shade is a bloody mess, Esme is panting, facial wound agitated as she smiles at Cassandra, uncaring of the fear and shock in the Seeker’s eyes. Fresh blood slides down her cheek and drips off of her chin, splattering onto the Shade below her.

“You were not safe” She rasps and leans into the Seeker, who tenses as Esme presses her face into the outside seam of her pants, hot breath uneven. 

The Seeker seems shaken after Esme’s short words and forces a thick, bitter liquid down her throat (she doesn't need to, but Esme knows she would feel better if Esme struggled). They head up hills, and finally, Cassandra cuts her bonds when she sees the Wraith on the hill. 

Esme’s lungs burn when she races up the hill, her fists sting with ichor as she reaches out, something feral in her movements as she grasps the Wraith by the shoulder and outstretched arm.

She pulls and the Wraith cannot pull back, even though it tries.

It makes no noise as she rips it in half, Esme taking the scream instead, yelling as it discharges something into her hands, burning her fingers and searing the rim of the Anchor. Her lungs struggle for a moment after, trying to pull in air and life, but unable too under the influence of the creeping shock that clings to Esme.

Cassandra drags her up by the arm and keeps hold of her until they can hear fighting beyond their sight. She leaves Esme at a burning bridge, pulling her sword from her belt and charging into the fray.

Esme follows behind, steps uneven and painful.

She dodges the swipes of Shades, the shattering of ice and the whistle of bolts with little effort, everyone but the demons well trained in fighting. 

Above her head, the Rift shines like a broken star.

She feels the grip on her wrist before she sees Solas come up to her, ichor on his clothes and something wild in his eyes. His grip is bruising on her skin, nails rough and sharp as he thrusts her hand up into the Rift.

Despite the warmth of Solas’ hand, the connection to the Rift is ice-cold. It washes over her like an ice bath and Esme can feel her breath stutter as she feels a presence come up to her. 

There is an impression of long limbs and wide eyes, a soft mouth full of sharp teeth and grasping hands that brush over her cheeks. 

“ _ You are ssscared” _ It (they, she) whispers with a wavering, sibilant voice, as small claws brush under her eyes. “ _ You huuurt. I heeelp” _

Esme smiles as she presses a kiss to the reaching, icy hand. “ _ No one can help me here. But, I can make you safe again if you leave. Would you like to go back to sleep?” _

The Rift-child nods and tucks herself under Esme’s chin, wrapping her long, thin arms once, twice, thrice, around Esme like a cocoon.  _ “Yes please,”  _ She asks sweetly. Then Esme grasps the edges of the Rift like a pull string as the arms loosen and fall away. She sees the big eyes, filled with tears blink and fade out as the Rift begins to close.

Esme falls as the broken star closes with a shudder, onto hard ground that feels both too warm and too cold as her body slams into the stone. She cries out and her eyes snap closed, assaulted by too-bright light. She can hear someone begin to speak, and then shout as slowly, the voice comes into focus.

“-wounded Seeker! What the hell did you run into?” The shouting is too loud for Esme’s ears, and she twitches trying to cover her ears, only to find her hands are captive to someone stronger. A whine comes from her throat as she tries to pull away, only for the hands to grip harder.

“I cannot heal her if she does not stop struggling!” She hears Solas snap. “Seeker Pentaghast, I must ask you to hold her down or she will harm herself more”

A rough noise comes from above before hands slam down on her shoulders in response, to the other speaker’s apparent distaste. She hears the first speaker curse and stomping feet come closer until she can feel softer, gentler hands touch her arm between the hands holding her captive.

“Breathe kid. He’s not going to hurt you, he only wants to help” He says, and oh, that’s Varric. “In and out, come on kid, breathe,” 

Her breathing stutters, shuddering in and out before it settles and she stills as Varric keeps murmuring, his baritone soothing her until the hands on her shoulder’s leave. The ones on her wrists loosen and she can feel something winding around them again, warmer than the Rift, but still cold. She flinches at the feeling and the hands tighten a bit.

“I will not harm you” Solas rumbles, magic winding under his hands. “But you must stay  _ still _ ”

Esme swallows and nods, keeping her eyes shut. “ _ Ir abelas, Hahren” _ She mutters and the hand’s spasm for a moment before loosening and the winding chill comes back. She lets the chill wander as it likes, feeling it waft over her wrists and hand, to her thigh where she can feel it sink in and the skin stitches back together. Her face is last, the burning lines becoming only aches as finally, Solas finishes and the chill is gone.

“Can-Can I open my eyes now?” She whispers and a rough chuckle comes from Varric as his hand gently squeezes her bicep.

“Yeah kid, you can open them now” He mutters and Esme pries her eyes open slowly, wincing with the light of the Breach but blinking easily until her eyes no longer water. Her first up-close look at Varric shows a man, older but still strong, with a square jaw and lively gold-brown eyes. His smile and nose are both crooked, but despite the blood on his cheeks and the smear of deeper red on his coat, Esme knows that he is true to the one she knows and relaxes a bit into the cold stone.

“Thank you,” She says, earnest and slides her eyes to Solas, whose skin is paler, and his ears sharper than his pixelated form. “To both of you. And, sorry for freaking out”

Solas shakes his head and cleans his bloody hands off in one of the patches of snow next to them. “You were afraid and in pain. It was an expected response.” He explains away and stands to full, lanky height. He doesn't offer his hand, looking up to something above her as hands grasp her sleepshirt and pull her upright roughly. 

“Come along. If she is healed enough to talk, she is healed enough to move” The Seeker says and Esme winces as her iron-clad hand wraps around her arm. A small jerk and Esme nods, getting her feet under her properly. 

“Yes, Cassandra” Esme looks to the two men, who are still tense. She notes Varric’s eyes are lingering on her face, where she can feel the wound is better, but not closed. 

As expected, Solas’ linger on her hand and the yellow-purple bruises on her wrists, just below black, inky script. 

“Are you two coming?” She asks, voice stronger now. She realizes she feels better, beyond just healing.

She wonders what God brought her here, and if the clinging, howling thing under her skin and lingering in her ears is a gift or a curse. 

“Course kid. Someone’s gotta keep you safe from what the Seeker can't” Varric says, jovial, despite the glint of steel in his eyes when he looks at Cassandra. Beside him, Solas says nothing as he picks up his staff and walks to them. His back is straight as he walks past until Cassandra makes a noise and hauls Esme after him.

They are silent for a long while, walking along stairs and rocky paths. Varric keeps Esme behind when Shades come up from the ground, hungry. The demon’s fall under Cassandra’s blade, to shards of ice and to whistling bolts. They twitch as they fall, before melting into the ice below, like puddles of swamp-water, green and full of dead things.

A tug on her arm has her moving again, up more stairs and along pathways. Esme ignores the memory of three Shades atop a hill and decides instead to focus on keeping her feet underneath her, and Cassandra’s hold loose when she decides to use the rope around Esme’s wrists as a hold. 

“So” Varric interrupts the silence as they pass a burning house and begin to ascend. “You got a name?”

Esme hums lightly, concentrating on climbing the steps. “Esme,” She says simply and winces when Cassandra tugs on her bonds harder. “You?”

“Varric Tethras, writer extraordinaire,” The dwarf said, and then nodded to Solas. “The silent one over here is Solas, but I find Chuckles works just as well”

Esme raised a brow, trying to hide a smile as they get to the next ridge and Cassandra stops abruptly, making Esme nearly run into her back. 

“More demons,” The woman says as explanation and the three fighters go forwards, Varric patting Esme’s back as he leaves her behind. They dispatch the Shades quickly, Esme already walking to them when the last ones falls and Cassandra turns back for her, only to see the younger woman waiting patiently just outside the combat zone. 

The two stare each other down, brown to grey, until the Seeker beckons Esme forth with an open hand. The snow crunches underfoot as Esme makes her way over, to calmly stand next to Cassandra, her bound hands offered again as a hold. 

“Shall we?” Esme prompts when Cassandra makes no move to continue, still staring her down with narrowed eyes.

“If I cut your bonds,” Cassandra says instead of answering, “Will you stay with us and not wander off?”

“What do you think?” Esme shoots back and Cassandra’s eyes narrow further. For a moment, Esme wonders if she’d pressed the wrong button at the wrong time, but all Cassandra does is make her Disgusted Noise and take out her knife. 

The cutting of her bonds isn’t made a show by either woman as the men watch on, and all Esme does when the rope is gone is put her hands to her sides and nod at the older woman. “We should get going. They’ll be another ripple soon.”

They continue on.

Esme hears Cassandra speak aloud as they go up another hill, but doesn't bother listening to the words when Varric and her start a conversation. Instead, she keeps her eyes to the bodies that line the steps leading upwards. Some are burning, some bleeding, others mashed into pulpy bits that make Esme want to look away.

But she doesn't, because the dead, she realizes, are something she’d going to have to get used to if she stays in Thedas.

The howling is still loud under her skin, but it lessens when they get to the next Rift.

This one, when she attaches during the middle of all the fighting, isn’t as cold as the first. It's warmer, more public pool than an ice bath.

The one who lives in it is different too.

_“You come aloone?” _It hums, and this one is, in fact, an _It._ _“Where is the Otherrrrr?”_

Esme feels not claws with this Beast, but swollen nubs, ripe and blood-filled as they press against her stomach and legs.  _ “Which Other?” _

A chuckle comes from a bloated throat, as a wide, plump slash of a mouth smiles.  _ “The Wolfffff. He waits outsiiiide. He cannot come innnnn” _ The voice turns into a low groan at the end of the sentence, a bubble of wet slime coming from its mouth after its last words. 

It waits, expectant, for someone who isn’t she.

_ “The Wolf cannot come in. He is locked out, torn away by deeds of his own doing” _ Esme tells the bloated child as she comes a bit closer. Bulging eyes squint up at her as thick arms reach up, begging to be carried. The baby gurgles as she picks it up, red-pink flesh rippling. “ _ Would you like to go to sleep now?” _

The baby cries as she kisses its cheek, fat yellow-cream tears sliding down its face as it wails in sick joy. 

_ “Let me rest Lullaby-Singer”  _ It burbles as Esme reaches for the curtain pulls above its crib, placing it among dreams of reddened sheep and hungry wolves.  _ “The First waits to be laid to rest. He calls. _ ”

Esme smiles as she pulls the Rift closed.

_ “I will answer _ ”

This time, as it closes, Esme is more braced for the sudden feeling of being dropped back into her own body, to feel her wounds open up again as the Rift arcs and shatters above her, knocking her back and onto her knees. 

“-is gone! Open the gate!” Cassandra shouts and Esme can hear the soldiers scramble to do so, old hinges creaking as they are pried apart. A hand lands on Esme’s shoulder making her look up into Solas’ eyes.

“You did very well,” He says, making her smile a bit. Again, he doesn't offer his hand to help her stand, but keeps his eye on her when she does, albeit stumbling and wincing when she feels the wound in her leg open again.

“We are being waited for” she whispers to him, nodding to where Cassandra is watching cooly next to the guards. Each man spits at Esme when she passes them, neither hitting her but coming close enough for her to flinch. 

She wonders how they will feel when they realize their lives have fit in her palm since she first arrived in this painful, fearful world.

The Chancellor is yelling again, voice raised and unwelcome on a bridge full of the quiet dead. There are more here than Esme had counted on, each wrapped in cloth that does not hide the spreading red or the missing pieces.

Esme can hear prayer, whispered by a woman in red and white, and wonders where the red comes from.

When the Chancellor spots them, he is quick to order Cassandra, who is quick to fire back. From her place behind and beside Varric, she watches the argument quietly, until the Chancellor gets too close for comfort. 

"Chancellor Roderick Asignon" She cuts in, when it seems that both arguing parties are going to throw fists, rather than words. His eyes are wide when they meet hers, both anger and fear showing in his face. "The cause of your grief is no guilt of mine. Let us pass, fix the issue at hand and then you can yell, curse and condemn me all you want. But, in order for more lives to be spared,  _ we must be gone" _

The moment she stops speaking, she feels the air move, a laugh and scream on the wind and once again, Esme is on her knees in front of a man who wishes her arm as she burns from the inside out. She chokes on wind as Varric swears, getting in front of her as the Chancellor tries to come around the table, voicing his displeasure at her  _ impertinence _ of all things.

“We go through the mountains,” She says, catching Leliana’s eye as the Chancellor redirects himself to Cassandra. “You have scouts who need help, and I have help.”

Leliana blinks slowly down at her, both women still and quiet in the noise that surrounds them. With a nod, the Left Hand offers her own to the girl on the ground and Esme smiles as she takes it, still wobbly but upright. 

“You will be going no-where girl-” Roderick says and Esme turns abruptly to face him, a warm seed of rage sprouting in her chest, patience and fear long-since burned away. 

Whatever he and the other’s see make them pause, and she can see fear again in his eyes, consuming the anger and grief below it.

“ _ We go through the mountains _ ” Esme whispers, low and commanding. She catches the eyes of her companions, who nod, even though Cassandra looks slightly disapproving at her choice. Facing back to Leliana, she sees the woman is digging through a pouch on her side before she pulls a blade from it.

The dagger is slim, iron-black and coated in a familiar red as Leliana hands it over to Esme, putting a weapon in her hands for the first time since she’d come to Thedas.

“I believe a scout of mine gave this to you” Leliana remarks, a thread of dark humor in her voice. “Best to keep it on you.”

Esme gives her an answering smile and nods before using the ties on her sleep-pants to keep it on her ‘belt’. “I appreciate it Sister Leliana. I’ll try not to lose it this time.”

With another nod to Leliana, Esme strides forward to the mountain, seemingly uncaring of the people behind her. She can hear the tap-tap-tap of Solas’ staff against flagstone, the purposefully heavy steps of Varric and the clinking of chainmail from Cassandra as she walks up to the first set of ladders. 

If she giggles at the swearing she can hear from below her, no one comments on it.

Even with her new knife, the real fighters take precedence in the fights in the abandoned mine, although Esme does poke her head into the room with all the books when the others are looting and finds herself another tiny knife on the table.

It disappears when they leave and only Esme knows about its appearance in her boot, between leather and wool. She cannot use it on Shade and Wraith yet, but it doesn't stop her from wanting it.

As they emerge from the caverns and go down more ladders, they find bodies along the ground, laying leaden-limbed and splayed broken in the snow.

“Shit” Varric breathes and comes up to her side, wide golden eyes roving over the dead scouts. “This can't be all of them...”

“There are more,” Esme says, making Varric look up at her, brow furrowed. “But we have to be quick, or there won't be.”

Cassandra makes a noise behind them, making Esme look back. “Then we need to move,  _ now _ ”

Beside her, Solas is silent, but the touch of his hand on her shoulder to keep her behind him is loud as they make their way down the hill, into more snow and craggy rocks that glow green, pulsing like a giant heart. 

At the end of the path is their little group of scouts, surrounded by Wraiths and Shades on all sides. There is blood in the snow as Cassandra charges forward and Varric begins to fire Bianca into the face of any demon that gets to close. Solas is the last to go forward, leaving Esme alone and too far to help. 

Then the Terrors come out and Esme sees a scout fall, crying out as a Terror swipes down. She was never a fast person on Earth, but her feet are moving within seconds of the Terror crawling out of the ground. 

It makes a shrieking sound as she tackles it into the snow and sits on its chest. Its limbs try to flail, long claw-tipped hands desperate to land a wound on the small woman pinning it down. 

It shrieks louder when Esme plunges her knife into its skull and drags it down. The skull splits like a watermelon under her blow, oozing clear green and pus-yellow down its face as it tries to make sense of the wound.

The shriek cuts off, finally, when Esme takes her knife out and plunges it into the gaping mouth and begins to  _ saw _ .

She stands as the last Terror screams behind her, falling to the sound of breaking ice and more shouting. The scout she saved stares up at her in abject horror as her hand raises to the Rift above them both and connects.

Heat batters her from all sides when she sinks in, desert-dust and sun-heat scouring her skin. The touch of this child is no better, she finds when it reaches back.

_ “Motherrrr?” _ She hears a purr come from the sand under-foot and watches as furred shoulders and dripping eyes make their way above the sand, witnesses the sand stick and sink into the beast-child as it stands before her. A mouth full of crooked teeth smiles at her, coming closer and nuzzling into her bare skin, abrading it away. “ _ You came!” _

Esme smiles as she runs her hand through course, harsh fur and comes away seeing bone. “ _ I did, little one. I am sorry to make you wait for your rest.” _ A deep rumble comes through the desert, echoing the sand-tiger as it winds around her, cutting swaths of skin off as it rubs into her, affectionate. 

“ _ It's okay Mama.”  _ They whisper and blink oasis-clear eyes at her. “ _ The Wolf waits outside the doorrr, and the Old One is gone. It's safe nnnnow.” _

This time as Esme lays this child to rest, it is in a bed of clear water, surrounded by palm fronds and tiny turtles that poke pink-white noses above the water to burble at the both of them. 

Her blood mixes in the water as she pulls a coconut tree down, breaking trunk and laying the fronds along her child’s false fur. Its tongue feels like a balm as she leaves, the purr echoing into reality as the Rift closes.

The cold is somehow  _ worse _ after the false-desert, and even before Esme hits the ground, she is shivering like a leaf in the wind. Immediately, she curls into herself, breathless from sudden cold and, despite knowing it was from a dream in a land where dreams come true, the feeling of muscle under her fingers instead of  _ skin _ is terrifying.

“Seeker! Somethings wrong with the prisoner!” The scout she saves shouts next to her and Esme winces when she hears Cassandra curse at the sight of her.

“Get back! Solas, she’s injured again!” Cassandra tries to roll her over on to her back before Esme screams at the feeling of ice on raw skin. The flinch back is surprising, but not unwelcome when it allows Esme to breathe again.

“No-not my back” She pants, shying away. “My skin, I can't-”

“Seeker, her  _ hand _ ” The scout whispers and points to where Cassandra can now see bone peeking out from abraded skin, where it looks like it had been scrubbed away over  _ hours _ instead of seconds.

“Solas, over here  **now** !” Cassandra roars and Esme can hear something desperate in her voice as Solas finally arrives at her side. There is a hiss of air before he begins to work, and it takes all Esme has not to shriek like a Terror when the cold of his magic meets her desert-burned and sand-abraded skin.

It only takes seconds for him to smooth over bone, fix the tendons and apply muscle and skin to her hand this time, a fact that Esme is grateful for when he pulls away. The rest of her body is still stinging-painful and sensitive, but manageable.

“What  _ happened _ ?” Varric breathes as he takes her in, the youngest of the group still curled up.

“Sand” Esme whispers, to everyone’s continued confusion. “Sand and heat and they were so  _ tired _ . They just want to sleep _ ” _

Solas looks like he wants to speak for a moment, only to be stopped when Esme’s newly healed hand squeezes his, looking like nothing ever happened. He stays silent as Cassandra helps Esme to her feet, staying careful as Esme hisses when she is touched along her lower back. 

The scouts stare at Esme as Cassandra gives them instructions, some fearful, others angry and the one that Esme saved simply looks  _ considering _ , brow furrowed as Cassandra leads Esme and the others away, heading towards the fire and smoke of the ruined Temple. 

They are all silent on the last leg of their journey, not even Varric making comments as the walk to the burned-out ruins of the Temple. Even though Esme can  _ smell _ the bodies from when seems to be a mile away, it doesn't prepare her for the sight of them when they walk into the ruined atrium.

The bodies of those lost are twisted stringy things. She can see where the fat bubbled and boiled and bled out, where the muscles crisped and singed into thick ropes and slabs holding blackened bones together. Most of the bodies are proportioned evenly, to where she can see the huge horned Kossith looking almost  _ small _ in death, well-honed neck muscle looking too fragile to hold up their eye-less heads.

Others are small, and Esme finds that is she looks closely, she can see the remnants of a small wooden toy in one of their hands.

It still burns, yellow-green fire making the wood crumble away and Esme stares long enough that Varric has to tug on her sleeve to get her going again.

“Come on kid. You can't help them now” He whispers and Esme grits her teeth before nodding and following him into the broken hallway to the Breach.

Her first close-up impression is that it's somehow  _ quieter _ than she expected. Despite the humming coming from it, it seemed more like a lullaby than an engine. The tendrils of smoke swirled in the air, delicate blades of poison that reached towards the blackened storm cloud above it. 

The air smelled of ozone and rain, and Esme was reminded of  _ home _ . 

Behind her, she heard Leliana and Cassandra talking as Varric and Solas kept far away from the edge where Esme stood, head tilted back like a Sunflower seeking the light.

None of them noticed her start her way down the seared path to the center. 

No scouts stopped her as she wandered down, even though half-way down she could hear Varric take notice of Esme quietly marching down when the booming voice of Corypheus echos through the Temple.

** _“Bring forth the Sacrifice” _ **

“Seeker, look!”

“After her!”

Esme can hear the clanking of metal against metal and resists rolling her eyes as she goes past the first sprouts of red lyrium that jut up from the ground, twisted and discordant singing echoing through her mind.

The howling comes back with a vengeance at the first strains and Esme fights not to flinch when a hand grabs her by the upper arm, nearly unbalancing her.

“I said not to wander off” The Seeker growls into Esme’s ear, keeping her back pressed to Cassandra’s front and a painfully tight hold on her shoulders. “We are too close to have you run now.”

“Who says I was running away? The only way to finish this is down. You don't need to watch me.” Esme bites back, turning her head slightly to meet Cassandra’s eyes. The older woman narrows her eyes and just stares at Esme for a moment, opening her mouth to speak when-

** _“Keep the Sacrifice still”_ **

** _“Someone help me!”_ **

Cassandra’s hands spasm on Esme’s shoulders as she hears Justinia and Corypheus’s voice echo through the chamber and for a moment, there is something delicate in her eyes.

“Justinia...?” She breaths and Esme sighs, pulling Cassandra’s hands off her shoulders. She keeps hold of one of them as she pulls the Seeker down, down, down, deeper into the bowls of Justinia’s tomb. 

She knows the others follow, but Cassandra is the one who needs the most guidance.

They reach the last ledge soon after and almost as soon as Esme’s feet touch the ground, she hears Justinia again.

“ ** _Somone help me!”_ **

** _“Let her go!” _ **

She hears Cassandra inhale sharply behind her as the Seeker pulls her shoulder and turns her around. “That was your voice! The Most Holy called to you-”

Then there is white light and Cassandra’s voice dies in her mouth as they watch someone who is not Esme tower over Justinia.

The Divine is an old woman, Esme knew, but it doesn't register that she lived a  _ good life _ . Her face is kind even in fear, with deep smile lines and crows feet. Her chin is strong and her cheekbones high.

She was a beautiful woman once, and now that she is old, it shines through even more.

From the door that is not there, Esme watches herself burst through, holding nothing and still dressed in her pink, sheep-patterned pajama’s. Her hair is messy from sleep, brown waves sticking out at all angles.

But her face is what catches the attention of those gathered at the bottom of the blast.

Deep in those brown eyes, wide and scared, is a fire intent on setting someone ablaze.

** _“Let her go!”_ **

To spite her, the shadowy figure simply points a clawed finger to Esme and simply says:

** _“Kill the girl”_ **

The vision fades like an echo down a well as Cassandra turns back to Esme, shock in her eyes. “You...”

Esme gives her a tired smile and pushes past her as she speaks. “As I said to the Chancellor. Your grief is not my guilt.”

Solas takes over before more is spoken, guiding the conversation to the opening and closing of the first Rift and the Breach behind it. 

“Are you ready?” The mage asks, as he comes up to Esme’s side. He watches her flinch a bit before she looks up at him. “The demon who comes through-”

“He won't go for me” Esme interrupts, looking back up to the Rift. “I'm more concerned with the one  _ in _ the Rift, not who comes out. Now, I’d step back if I were you.”

Solas looks at her funny for a moment, but does as he is bid, going back to where the others are gathered. The uniform look on each face surrounding her is determination and fear as slowly, Esme raises her hand-

And gets lost in a tide of tears.

_ “It huuurts!” _ The Rift wails. The tide of their tears tries to pull Esme under for a moment, saline going down her throat and hitting the already abraded spots on her back and thighs. But what really surprises her is the  _ second _ voice that echoes through the dream-space.

“ _ I know it hurts” _ A deeper, lower voice soothes.  _ “But look, someones here to see you!” _ Of the things Esme expected when going into this, one certainly isn't a hand double the size she is coming down and pulling her out of the sea. 

Esme’s second look at the Breach is that it is in the shape of a man. Broad-shouldered, and tall, her towers over the child at his feet, whose tears gush into the pool around the both of them. His eyes are the same shade of green as his physical manifestation, though the hair on his head, long and curly, and the hair in his beard are both the same red as the lyrium that spreads like malignant fungus throughout the temple.

“ _ What hurts sweetie?”  _ Esme whispers as the Breach brings the child to her. Thick rivulets of tears pout off of his hand as the child looks up with hollow eyes.

“ _ Everything! The voices are too loud and the lights are too bright! I can't sleep, Mama!”  _ The child cries and in two steps, they are in Esme’s arms, clutching at her abraded skin and pouring salt-water over each mark. The Breach rumbles and Esme can feel him sit down, still holding both of them in his hands.

_ “Then, we will have to block them out, won't we sweetheart?”  _ She whispers into the child’s hair. From the water cascading down her, she pulls the skin away from her hip and watches it become a blindfold. The tips of her pinky fingers come off with twin pops as she places them gently within the child’s ears as slowly, the tears fade away and she smiles down at the child.

The last thing she does before slipping the blindfold on the boy is look up the Breach as he stares down, sorrow in his eyes.

_ “I'm sorry I can't put you to sleep yet,”  _ She says, knowing he can hear her despite the noise she can hear outside the Rift. _ “I'm not strong enough yet.” _

_ “You will be little Mother”  _ He rumbles as she slides the blindfold over empty eye-sockets and kisses her child on the forehead. _ “You will be” _

The water becomes a blanket, tucked in tight around the little boy’s small body, and the hands around them become a cradle as slowly and softly, the Rift closes around her, asleep and dreaming of nothing.

Outside, in the cold, screaming world of Justinia’s tomb, Esme falls screaming to the ground as the Rift closes with a thunderous roar, bleeding from her hands and waist.

“She’s ble--------! -- need-----aler  _ no-!” _

“Com---- Pri-----s! S------- me! Sta----ak-!”

“She------ing!”

  
Despite all the shouting, all the pain and all the fear she can feel around her, Esme falls asleep to final, blessed  _ silence _ .


	2. Come Devil Come, She Sang (Call Out My Name)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *flops this here after almost 4 months of nothing*
> 
> Writing an original book is hard as shit and I do not recommend it.
> 
> *Waltzes back into Scrivener with original character notes and ignores the five other WIP's she has stuck to her back*

Esme wakes again in the dark and in the cold. 

The blankets around her are warm and soft as they cover her, unseen to her night-blind eyes as they adjust to the deep dark black and grey that shades itself into lighter tones as she blinks up to the ceiling. Her breath is slow still as she shifts in her tiny cocoon, eyes roaming the dark still shrouding the room. 

There are silhouettes along the walls, edges painted in dauntless black and silver-white from the barest rays of moonlight as it creeps like a thief into the room from the rustling curtains covering the window. There is no movement in the room, save for her own and the whispering wind that curls cold fingers along her face, tracing the edges of her lips.

She makes a decision slowly and gently squirms her sore, loose body from her blankets to rest upright, taking deep breaths as her head swims before the blood calms and settles again. Her feet are as bare as the rest of her, the cold wood underfoot and cold air around her making her flinch but she finds herself wandering the dark just the same, hands outstretched and grasping empty space.

Her hands trace along a fireplace built into the cabin wall easily, and, hoping, she makes them trace harder, fingers searching until-

“There you are” She whispers to the quiet night as her fingers close around a flint fire starter. It's small and her knees hurt when she lands on them, graceless in the dark. Her hands shake as she strikes the stone, an old memory of camping with her uncle Antony coming to the forefront of her mind. 

_ “Like this Esmeralda. The fire must stay lit, little darling, lest the beasts come by. Let me guide you.”  _ She remembers him saying, wrapping old, scarred and burned hands around her own until Esme watches the fire light in front of her, lighting up the shadows in her memory and the cabin itself.

Esme breathes deeply of the firelight as it rumbles to life, crackling softly and joyously in the little home it had been made. She allows herself to simply kneel before the fire, letting it warm her even as her body protests, aching and creaking in familiar and unfamiliar places as she lets her eyes slip closed and her lungs to expand.

The next step is clothes, she thinks, opening her eyes once more. Her skin is nearly bare, naked as her birthing, save for a soft pair of skin-tight shorts. Her arms are no longer bruised from angry hands, her thighs no longer bloody and though her hand is scarred, it only aches in the familiar way Esme recognizes from creaking bones rubbing against each other. 

She cannot find a mirror to see if her face is as scarred as she thinks it must be, but she does find a pile of clothes gently folded on the desk on the far side of her room. The first touch is tentative, her hands unsure of the grey fabric, only to find it is softer than she would have thought. Picking it up, Esme unravels the fabric into a dress, long-sleeved and hemmed in a deep red cloth. A breastband more akin to a binder than a bra is hidden within the folds and Esme decides to just let it fall instead of scrambling to catch it. The last thing in the pile is a pair of darker grey leggings, made of a thinner fabric than the dress.

Once dressed, however, Esme still feels lost. Her first two tasks were for comfort, warmth, and clothing necessary to function, but now her mind was spinning like a wheel on a spindle. Trackless and unending as she stood motionless in the middle of the room, staring at the shapes the shadows cast along the wall.

“Why am I here?” She asked the air. 

The breeze whispered as the curtains fluttered, but refused to answer as she plucked a familiar knife from the desk.

“How did I get here?” She asked the door as she walked to it, placing boots two sizes too big on her feet, sliding the knife into the space between her skin and the leather. 

The hinges creaked, squealing angrily as the door opened, but it did not answer.

“Why did you bring me here?” She whispered to the Breach, as it lit up the sky, drowning out the light of the twin crescent moons that hung in the sky, thin slivers of silver amongst the poisonous green ribbons.

The air hummed with an answer, but Esme could not hear it, deaf to the song that should have been too loud to ignore. 

Looking around, somehow disappointed, Esme finds that the area around her was empty, no milling scouts or sleepless villagers wandering about as the moons hung in slim crescents in a nearly starless sky. It seemed eerie for a moment as she tried to process the empty space and humming quiet that accompanied it.

Then Esme heard the shouting.

Curious, she stepped quietly out from under the doorway of her cabin and followed the sounds, her boots making small crunching noises in the snow as she crept along. Soon enough she was able to see firelight brighter than the little lamps that lined the streets and able to hear the shouted words easier, the cacophony of voices becoming clearer.

_ “He wounded the Herald!” _

_ “Break his bones!” _

_ “Cut his eyes out!” _

_ “Kill him!” _

Startled, Esme peered around one of the buildings carefully and found herself breathless at the sight. 

The grounds before the Chantry were filled with people. Some were dressed in familiar uniforms, scouts and soldiers alike, with weapons on their backs and hips. Others were common folk, dressed in rougher versions of Esme’s dress or in plain trews and tunic’s beneath thick fur jackets.

Finding the cause of their anger couldn’t be seen from her angle, Esme glanced up and around before her eyes landed on the roof of one of the cabins, a sturdy looking thing made of new, barren wood. 

Her steps and hands were quick as she scrambled over to the cabin and scaled one of the boxes beside it until she could grip onto the wooden shingles that scattered along the steep slope. Her boots were not made for climbing roofs and her hands were still not as steady as she liked, but Esme had practice climbing roofs in worse conditions. 

Finally, after nearly slipping twice, Esme was able to straddle the pinnacle of the rooftop and look down on the crowd, and the thing that made them scream for blood.

And for the blood they had already claimed, it seemed.

In between two men, dressed in the familiar garb of guards, a man was kneeling, bloodied and battered, his clothes ripped and torn. His hair was lank, the yellow-gold strands stained half-red near his temples and where it brushed his collar. From where she was perched, Esme could see that one of the guards had a hold of it, tilting his head back to showcase the blood and bruises that decorated his face, red, purple and blue making his pale skin a watercolor of pain. 

She  _ knew _ him, she realized, with a cold feeling. It was the guard from the dungeon, whose knife she had kept despite her own blood staining it. 

And, much like the last time she woke, the watchers of the beating were crowing for more.

And yet.

There was nothing triumphant about the way he hung limply from the hands holding him up. There was no righteous anger, no plea to let him go, no want to be released from the grasp of those who would kill him and leave him bleeding on the steps of the Chantry.

He looked  _ broken _ .

Esme flinched as the guard on the left landed another punch to the man’s stomach, to the cheering of the crowd before them. Her torturer made a soft, nearly unheard noise at the hit, but didn't struggle when the one holding his hair shook him roughly.

Esme watched as another hit landed, and another as the crowd jeered and laughed, taunting the guards and hollering for more. But all Esme could think about was the boys she had grown up with, violence growing like blackberry vines in their bloodstreams, making happily bruised boys who kept her away from fights to the bloodied young men they became, pinning her attackers down until their fists bled.

_ “They aren’t worth it Dylan. Let them go.” _

_ “They’re just words, Mikey. Let’s go home.” _

_ “Let it be Sam. I'm okay, it's just a bruise.” _

_ “I'm okay.” _

_ “Let them go” _

_ “Let  _ ** _him_ ** _ go” _

_ Blood splashed on concrete and all she could see was the smile on their faces, and their outstretched hands holding the bat. _

Sighing softly, Esme closed her eyes and steeled herself as she climbed down from the roof, bones protesting as she landed onto the packed snow. Beyond the border of the shadows, the crowd yelled again as one of the guards likely landed another hit on the kneeling man, a wet thud echoing before the cheer.

Swallowing hard, Esme opened her eyes to look into the Breach, green reflecting in her eyes as she turned the corner and stood behind the crowd.

Then she began to move. 

The first people to see her were a pair of scouts, dressed in thick leathers and armed to the teeth. To see them flinch back from the sight of her was novel as they parted the way, pulling at the clothes of others to allow her through.

Bit by bit, step by step, the crowd parted for her, becoming silent as they watched her stride through the bodies until, finally, she stood before the kneeling man and gemini guards.

“Your Worship?” The left guard whispered, eyes wide as he took her in, still weak and barely standing despite her carefully loose posture. “You’re awake?”

“Just so” Esme murmured, eyes fixed on the man between them. “I heard noises. Care to explain yourselves?”

“I-we-um” The right one stuttered and the left one glared at him, swatting his arm before turning back to Esme.

“This one caused harm to you and having done so, turned himself in for punishment. It is our duty to ensure that punishment is fulfilled” Left said, standing a bit straighter as if expecting to be praised. When all Esme did was stare at him, blank brown eyes burrowing like needles under his skin, the smile he wore dwindled.

“What was his punishment to be, then? Beating? Branding? Drawn and quartered?” The young woman asked, closing the distance between the four of them. Her eyes swung back to the penitent man, still kneeling, bloodied and battered upon the Chantry steps.

“Ah, no, your Worship. The Commander thought it best if you were to decide the punishment” Right put in, ignoring the glare from his companion. Esme hummed lightly as she tilted up the kneeling man’s face.

“I see. Tell me, boy, what punishment do  _ you  _ think you deserve?” She asked, lightly, as she made him look at her. His eyes, no longer cold and now stained in red, were empty as they met hers, resigned to a fate that had not been decided. 

“I put myself onto your mercy, your worship” He croaked and Esme’s eyes narrowed as the slur in his speech. 

“And if I asked for your head? What would you say then?” Slowly, the girl let her nails dig into his chin, just enough to leave a mark, indenting the skin in thin crescents.

Below her, he swallowed hard and let his eyes slip closed. “Then I would accept your judgment.”

Esme cocked her head to the side for a moment and, without letting him go, bent down to retrieve the knife from her boot, unsheathing it to glimmer in the torchlight as she stood back up. She could hear someone behind her gasp, and another whisper as she tapped his face with the flat of the blade.

“And if I asked for your eyes? Or your tongue?”

The blonde man flinched but didn't move away from the blade as the point tapped just below his eye. 

“Or if I asked for you to be pulled apart, piece by piece? Or, perhaps for your belly to be split open on my knife and a hook to buried in you, only for your innards to be pulled out, inch by inch, until you were hollow? What would you say then?” Esme’s voice lowered and she could see the right guard pale as the left one smiled in near triumph.

The air was still as the crowd behind her listened, wordless, soundless, motionless as the kneeling man swallowed and opened his eyes, red-tinted blue meeting fire-dark brown.

“I would say that it is only deserving, for what I had done to you” He whispered, and watched as Esme smiled, a slow, soft, cruel thing as she bent down to whisper back, soft lips brushing his ear.

“Then I would say that you are more deserving of my mercy than any of those who would wish my punishment upon you” Gently, Esme pressed a kiss to the man’s cheek before standing upright once more. “Release him.”

Right startled, dropping his prisoner’s arm while Left stared at her uncomprehending.

“What?” He blurted incredulously, as Esme sheathed her knife. Both he and the kneeling man stared at her for a moment before Esme narrowed her eyes.

“I said release him. His punishment has been decided, and  _ I _ will take care of it. Now, if you please?” Esme waited, patient as Left swallowed hard and practically shoved the man’s arm away, scowling. With slow, careful motions, Esme bent down and slung one of the blond man’s arms over her shoulder and pulled him up, mindful of his injured ribs.

Facing the crowd, she could see them all staring at her, wide-eyed and speechless as she strode forwards, uncaring that her charge was bleeding onto her dress and that his form was much bigger than hers. They didn't make a sound as they parted for their Herald and the bloodied, beaten man slowly made their way through the mass, and as the crowd closed behind then, Esme sighed deeply, shoulders slumping a bit when they got out of sight.

Neither of them spoke when Esme pried open the door to her cabin and led them in, closing the door behind them with her boot. Looking around, Esme quickly found that the most comfortable place for her charge would be her bed, and sighed at the thought of blood on her bed. But still, she led them over to the still messy cocoon of blankets Esme had crawled out of and let him sag onto the bed, his shoulders slumping as she let him down and his head lolling briefly to the side.

The next step was tending his wounds, Esme thought, turning from him to go to the table on the far end of the room, where tiny pots of salve, a heap of bandages and other supplies waited. However, she didn’t get more than a foot when a hand shot out, wrapping with hard-won strength around her wrist and pulling her back.

Looking back, her eyes met her new charges, his blonde brows furrowed while his blue eyes, sought something in hers, confusion and pain clouding the iris.

“Why?” He breathed, hand tightening ever so slightly around her wrist as he spoke. “Why have mercy on me? I am no one, and I-”

“Was grieving” Esme supplied, turning to him fully. Her hand came up to the one holding her and covered it as much as she could, her smaller hand looking child-like against his own. “Pain does strange things to people, and you were no different. Drunk and cheered on by your peers, you made a decision that affected us both. Tell me, as you are now, would you do it again?”

His head shook slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“Even if I wasn’t the Herald? Even if I was just some girl?”

“Never” He croaked, and Esme smiled as she pried his hand off her wrist and held it carefully in her clasped hands.

“Well then, you have your answer. You have my mercy because you  _ earned  _ it. Had you given me another answer, or not turned yourself in, or continued to harm others under your care, I would have left you there to die” Esme said plainly, squeezing his hand once before letting it drop. He didn't reach out again as she turned away and grabbed the supplies she needed to clean and patch him up. “Now, before I ask you to strip out of that shit-show of a shirt, would you like to give me your name sir?”

There was silence from behind her for a moment before:

“Hadrian Belfoure” Another pause, “What shall I call you, Your Worship?”

Esme smiled down at the pot in her hand and turned, arms full. “You may call me Esme, sir Belfoure. Or, if you decide to be woefully formal, Lady Ashbourne will do. Now, shirt off” Esme placed her load on the table by the bed and took a handful of Hadrian’s shirt, tugging pointedly at the ripped and bloodstained fabric. 

She didn't comment on his floundering for a moment as he debated on whether to protest being half-naked in her presence until she copied her mother by crossing her arms and cocking a brow at him.

Not even Thedisian men were immune to her mother’s glare, it seemed, as Hadrian winced as he pulled his shirt off, holding it awkwardly in his hands as Esme rewarded him with a smile. Dipping one of the cloths she had gathered, she lightly dipped it in the water bowl and slowly washing the blood from him. The first flinch has her pausing to raise an eyebrow at Hadrian, who refused to look at her as she pressed the cloth to him again, only for him to stay still.

Hadrian stared resolutely at the flames cracking in the fireplace as Esme cleaned the blood off of his chest, swallowing hard when she ran the cloth gently across his neck, where a pair of handprints were now showing, phantom red fingers still strangling him. 

“They wanted you dead, didn't they?” Esme mused and Hadrian flinched again, swallowing hard as she rinsed her cloth off, wringing the excess water off into the bowl. “Will you tell me their names?”

“Why?” He rasped as Esme gently turned his head to face her, eyes intent on the bruises on his face. He kept his eyes carefully away from her own and bit the inside of his cheek when she pressed too hard on the bruise on his temple. “What good would it do?”

“I would have them removed from dungeon duty for starters” Esme shook her head lightly when she saw his hands clench harder on the shirt in his lap. “Okay, enough with the tough guy act. Am I hurting you?”

This time Hadrian made the mistake of looking at Esme, only to see a frown deepening across her face. He hesitated for a moment, and witnessed her dark eyes narrow.

“ _ Hadrian _ .” She warned and shakily, he nodded.

“Not much, but your hands are not the lightest Lady Ashbourne” He replied and Esme hummed, straightening up a bit from where she was bending to get a better look at the marks on his face. It was nearly invisible how she staggered a bit when she stood, and Hadrian's careful watching allowed him to also see the way she blinked too hard and quick for a moment before turning to the little table next to them, cementing the nagging feeling in the back of his head.

“You aren’t wholly well, are you?” He asked and Esme gave him a look from where she was smelling the little pot in her hand (minty and fresh smelling, with a musty undertone.  _ Elfroot _ , she decided). 

“What gave you that impression? My horrible balance or how hard I'm trying to keep still?” She quipped and grabbed a fresh rag, dipping it in the rag. “Now,  _ tell me _ if my hands are too heavy alright? No use in hurting you further.”

Hadrian nodded a bit and braced himself for the cold of the salve on his skin. Despite her words to warn her, he found himself not having to. Her touch, not that she knew, was light, if stiff, and the salve started working quickly on his bruises as it was smoothed on, numbing the worse of the pain.

The two of them lapsed into silence as Esme applied the salve over his chest, save for the quiet murmurs she made to him in order for him to lift his arms or turn his head. Soon enough, the roll of bandages he had been dreading was in her hand, ready to be applied. 

“Alright, keep your hand here for me?” She instructed, taking his hand from his lap and gently placing it on one of the ends of the bandages. It stays in places as she wraps his ribs as carefully as she can, going from hard-won muscle memory rather than formal practice. But, soon enough, Hadrian’s ribs are wrapped and when Esme rocks back on her heels, she can see the way his shoulders are slumped and the way his eyes flutter open when she tilts his head back up to look at her.

“You should rest” She says finally, and Hadrian winces a bit. “You look exhausted.”

“Yes, well, getting beaten always does that to a man” He snarks and Esme snorts as she grabs the pots and leftover supplies to put them away. She is mid-way through placing a jar back on the desk when she hears a soft ‘thud’ behind her. Fearing that her patient has fallen, she whirls around to see-

Hadrian, on the floor, kneeling with his head down and hand offered in supplication.

“Hadrian?”

“I have wronged you” He whispered. “I have harmed where I was to protect, I have killed where I should have saved and lashed out in anger where I should have comforted in sorrow.” His head lifts and she is surprised by the heat in them. “I ask to right those wrongs, by your leave, Lady Ashbourne.”

“How?”

“You will need protection and someone by your side. As loathe you may be to admit, you are vulnerable and even with the aide of the Chantry, an army cannot protect you if they cannot be close.”

Esme’s eyes narrow a bit despite the thing blooming in her chest. Hope is the most powerful thing to take away, and she can feel it’s roots wrapping one-by-one around her heart.

“Are you suggesting you be my bodyguard?”

“Bodyguard, companion, servant” Hadrian gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Call it what you will. But I wish to stay, if you will let me.”

The cabin is silent for a long, slow, moment before Esme smiled, slipping her hand into Hadrian’s. “Alright, Sir Belfoure. A champion, you shall be. You will stay in my cabin, aide me when I have need of it and protect me from those who would harm me. What do you ask in return?”

Hadrian shook his head. “I ask only that you give me the same care that you have shown me today. And perhaps a few meals a day.”

A giggle came from Esme against her will and she nodded, pulling Hadrian up gently, until he stood before her, half-in shadow from the firelight. “Then we have a deal. But! Before anything else happens, I think you need to get some rest. Can't have my new bodyguard falling asleep in the middle of his duties, now can I?”

Hadrian nodded a bit and she gently pushed him back until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he was forced (gently) down onto the bed. “But where will you sleep?” He asked, confused and Esme shook her head.

“With all this activity, I don't think sleeping is much of an option for me right now. Now,  _ sleep _ . We will talk more in the morning.” Her tone brooked no argument and with a sigh, Hadrian let her fuss until he was set against the headboard, eye-lids already drooping as she stepped away and admired her handy-work. 

The chair by the desk is surprisingly comfortable as she settles in it, watching her new companion as he loses a failing battle to sleep, head lolling to the side as his breathing settles.

It is only then that she relaxes and she lets her hand settle on her stomach, onto the smallest of bumps that has begun to show.

“Looks like we aren't alone as I thought my darling” She whispers to the baby in her belly and with that, she turns to one of the books left open on the desk, and begins to read, humming a half-remembered lullaby as she flips the pages.


End file.
